


All alone again

by BeesocksnKneesocks



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Also David is mentioned, Basically this is just. Pain, Hurt, Just a oneshot but pure angst, Mentions of cancer and mental illnesses, One-Sided Love, Other, Somewhat inspired by Brokeback mountain, Thomas is a wreck and I'm sorry, angst angst angst, yes its that bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesocksnKneesocks/pseuds/BeesocksnKneesocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing someone you love is always hell, especially if it happens multiple times during a seemingly endless lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All alone again

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, it's Kneesocks!  
> This is a piece I wrote a few months ago. It's, well, very sad. You've seen the tags. You're warned.

He wouldn't have thought that losing another one would hit him that hard.  
He's spent the last five decades actually getting better, actually recovering from his trauma and the grief and the depression. There were times when he thought he would not live the start of the new millennium.  
But he did.  
He managed to live into a time where the court granted same-sex couples the rights of a proper marriage, where doctors gave him medication against the nightmares that didn't wreck his immune system, where Miriam Stephanopoulos' wife was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer and could be treated. A time where Peter Grant became his first apprentice, his best friend, something akin to a, more or less, platonic life partner. Thomas did not mind seeing Peter in a rather happy relationship with somebody else. Being very fond of him himself, he occasionally felt jealousy, but there was absolutely no doubt that Peter cared for Thomas just as much as Thomas did for him, the nature of these feelings being unimportant.

On February twenty-first 2019, a bomb attack on Trafalgar Square kills seventeen people, and injures fourty-two severely. Amongst them are Peter Grant and Beverley Brook; the latter survives the attack with grave injuries.  
Peter doesn't.

There is a funeral. The family organizes it.  
Of course, he is invited.  
Molly, Abdul, Frank and Miriam join forces to make Thomas go, though he really doesn't want to go anywhere at the time given. Molly irons his best black suit and picks a tie for him, scarlet with a golden pin to match his cufflinks. 

Surrounded by mourning family and what appears to be every Londoner with ties to Sierra Leone, he feels out of place at the service.  
Both Matriarch and Patriarch Thames are present and remain reverently silent throughout the ceremony. If there's any tension between them, they're well grounded; whilst the two of them usually cannot even stand being in the same Londoner district, today they seem to magically get along. They nod at Thomas when their eyes meet, but their faces are sans expression.

Instead of a flower, he puts a brooch in the casket; a small bird in flight, made out of folded steel and silver. He's made it himself after the news of Peter's death. Spent ten hours a day working on it for nearly two weeks, filled it with magic, until every crevice of the metal shone and vibrated with it.  
It hurts. God, it hurts, seeing Peter's face for the final time. The skin and flesh is damaged and burnt but it's still Peter's face, lovely smart kind curious Peter.  
He can't stand being there anymore so he calls himself a cab, home to the Folly, remaining in stoic silence during the entire ride. He wants home, home, somewhere where he feels, more or less, safe.

Despite the Folly being his home, his sanctuary, he just feels worse, almost collapsing in the atrium already and yelling at Molly to bloody go away. His voice echoes. Molly reaches out for him hesitantly but Thomas just shouts at her again, shaking and crying. She retreats, her eyes wide, but not daring to come close again.  
He climbs the stairs, still fully dressed, not watching where he's going but he knows. God, he knows exactly.

Peter's room looks strangely big and empty. He always spent more time in the coach house, and the barely filled wardobe and shelves make it look like a hotel room -- a temporary solution. 

And temporary it was.

On the neatly made bed, a set of clothes has been laid out. Judging from the fact that Molly irons everybody's clothes sharply, the shirt and jacket look like they have already been worn. They're on a hanger, but they smell like Peter's aftershave when Thomas inhales their scent. He grabs them, clutches them tightly against his chest, and collapses onto the floor.  
"Oh Peter."  
He stares at the soft red tartan until he's dizzy or until he can hardly identify the pattern anymore because his vision is blurry. He presses his wet face into the fabric, and weeps. He recalls clearly how he clutched onto David's body the same way, and the memory makes him want to scream his lungs out.  
If there's any kind of comfort, it's knowing that Peter wouldn't have wanted this. He wouldn't have wanted Thomas to break like this.  
For the past couple of years, it felt like death wasn't real.  
But it is real. Too real.  
Real enough for David to be gone. for Peter to be gone. Real enough for Thomas to be left all alone, again.


End file.
